


You Knew The Password

by fireandhoney



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: About the time away, Confrontation, Fix It, Fix It Fic, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of drugs, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Reichenbach Fall, Season 3 Fix it, Sherlock apologizing, Sherlock's Past, Sherlock's return, life story, mentions of abuse, mentions of torture, the empty hearse fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:00:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28176561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireandhoney/pseuds/fireandhoney
Summary: so I let you in the door
Relationships: Johnlock, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 21





	You Knew The Password

I spent my whole life keeping people at bay. Pretending nothing bothered me, that I wasn’t emotional. “Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side”, and all that. Being cold and rude so people would call me a jerk and move on, away from me. I made sure I stayed alone, because alone protects me. From getting attached, involved. From getting hurt. 

It worked for over twenty years. From the moment Mycroft left for school and left me at home with our parents, I never allowed anyone in. I couldn’t handle the dealings of a social life, having to pay attention to what I say, to who’s listening, way too much effort to maintain a friendship. And also, it gave me the distance I needed to not let the comments affect me, not too much anyway. “Freak” and “ass” and “psychopath”, I heard all of them again, and again, and again through the years. From classmates, neighbours, colleagues, strangers. Even from the other addicts, on the increasingly frequent occasions I didn’t make it home after using. I built walls, buried myself inside this shell, and escaped inside my own head, my sole friend being the cocaine that released me from the confines of this insufferable reality. 

One day, I couldn’t have told you which one it was, as I was recuperating from a night spent on a broken down mattress in an unsavoury part of town, police officers showed up. I was too out of it to care, and I followed them into a car, into the Yard, to an officer’s office. I sat down in front of a man that looked just as bored as I felt, who clearly was being cheated on, didn’t get the recognition he deserved from his superiors and didn’t enjoy being here at this early hour any more than I did. As he explained that I was being arrested for possession of illicit substances and enumerated my rights, I looked around on his desk and at the files pinned to his wall. Based on the links he’d made between some photos and documents, he clearly had missed that the body couldn’t have been killed at that location, given the orange tint of the dirt on the victim’s soles. And so I told him. He wasn’t pleased to be interrupted, but he wasn’t trying to dismiss my thoughts. For once, someone’s initial response to my deductions wasn’t to insult me or tell me to shut off. He asked me to explain. And I did. He got up, looked at the pictures of the victim’s shoes, and nodded. He gave me his phone number, made me promise to call him later, and ran out of the room. Lestrade was and still is the only contact registered in my phone. Within a week, I stopped cocaine entirely, found myself a room to stay in and started referring to myself as the world’s only consulting detective - well, I invented the job. I solved 13 cases that week, including 7 murders, and I learned to live on a new high: being helpful.  
  
Mycroft stopped trying to get me instated to rehabilitation centers and my life started to resemble something worth living for. I kept my cold, reserved public persona, but for once, I had a reason to go out and interact with other people that made it bearable. I assisted on crime scenes, and eventually on interrogations, and ended up being involved in every step of the investigations. That kept me occupied for a while, it kept me busy and interested. But at the end of the day, I still made my way to my small confines, to the absolute silence of my isolated life. And slowly, over the years, loneliness crept back into my mind, making it hard to focus, shaking the walls and allowing some of the insults to sneak in. I started snapping more, became much more difficult to deal with, and Lestrade hesitated before contacting me on cases. I needed something to take my attention away, to help me concentrate. And I slipped back into old habits. I started using again, only once, then a couple times a week, and then whenever I wasn’t out on a case. Of course, Lestrade isn’t an absolute moron and he figured it out rather quickly. He got me into his office and even though I had expected anger and screaming, I was shocked. He wasn’t angry, he was disappointed, and he was hurt. He told me he’d put so much hope into me, that he knew I had too much potential to be wasting it on drugs, that he believed I could do something great with my life if I put in even a tenth of the time and effort I put into solving cases. And he said something I will never forget.  
“Someday, you’re gonna have to learn you’re only human, and if you don’t get your life together, you’ll miss out on the best of it.”

He gave me an ultimatum. Get rid of the drugs, go to rehab and come back clean, or my rapport with the Yard was over. He gave me a second chance, that I truly believed I didn’t deserve, and I took it, because what else could I do? Who else would care about what I was becoming, if not Lestrade?

Mycroft signed me into one of the fanciest and most expensive establishments he could find, and I spent a month following the ridiculous schedule of meetings and “therapies” until they released me. I jumped back into cases and I started looking for a flat when I saw an interesting ad by an old acquaintance, whom I’d helped a few years before. Baker Street would be a perfect location in the heart of London, all I needed was a flatmate, an idea I found ridiculous until that afternoon when you walked into the lab at Bart’s. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” I asked you, and instantly, I knew those three words would change my life. You, with your doctor pride and your soldier bravery, impressed but never intimidated. I recognized the signs of the addict in need of a fix - only yours wasn’t cocaine, you were in need of adrenaline - and deep-rooted loneliness. They’d call me sentimental, but to use Molly’s words, it was “like [our] souls recognized each other and connected”. I told you all about your tan, your psychosomatic limp, your injury, but I didn’t mention how easily I could read in your features that you were hanging on to life by a thread, probably wondering why you were still alive. How easily I saw your pain, your self-hatred and your anger. Something about you, maybe all of you, resonated with me and I knew you would be significant. I never could have guessed how much. 

Over the next 48 hours, we visited the flat on Baker Street, went on a crime scene, you met my annoying brother, we contacted a murderer, chased a cab on foot through alleys, I proved you didn’t need your walking stick, we interrupted a drug bust in our place, I followed the criminal to an abandoned building and you found us, shooting the killer in the process before accepting to move in with me. Has any friendship ever started more intensely? Of course I wouldn’t know, but I assume they don’t. 

You saw how people treated me, you heard the insults, acknowledged the way I interacted with others, and you didn’t run away. Quite the opposite, you stood by me and defended me, even though we’d barely just met. I spent weeks trying to explain it, but I think you felt it too: this connection between us. Like an invisible string tying us together, pulling us to each other. Like everything that happened up to that point finally made sense, like everything was finally explained: it was to lead us here, to this moment. To sitting in front of the fireplace, in the seat you claimed the moment you stepped into the living room, in the silence that only comes when two people understand each other, talking without words, sharing smiles and takeaway and cups of tea. It was like I’d been waiting for this my whole life without knowing it. We started working together, your well timed questions and interventions helping me organize my often running trains of thoughts and pointing out details of the investigations that helped me connect everything together. We ran around London at the calls of Lestrade, who you befriended quickly, and we became an inseparable duo, always showing up side by side, ready to react to any crime scene or case thrown at us. All the walls I’d spent decades building up, the distance I’d forged between me and the outside world, you shattered them. It’s like you showed up with the password, and I let you in the door, unsure what to expect but eager to discover. 

Life was relatively quiet, working, enjoying our free time together in Baker Street or trying all the restaurants within walking distance of our place, chasing criminals, playing the violin as you typed up your blog. Moriarty’s menace was becoming more pressing with each new report we got on him or his involvement in the cases we solved, until that day with the five pips. A great game, that’s all it was to him, and I got caught up in it, in the thrill of the deduction, in the appealing matter of the search for a solution. For the first time since we met, I genuinely feared I would lose you. I felt the heavy burden of having disappointed you and I wondered how normal relationships deal with these types of things. And then you showed up at the pool. Those two seconds, before my brain registered your eyes blinking and I got the message, my entire world imploded. I had never felt such crushing betrayal, and my mind shut off, like I’d been hit in the face by a train. As soon as my system rebooted, and I understood you were being used, my pain turned into anger. And I realized I would do anything, everything, to make the man pay for making me doubt you and putting your life at risk. I was ready to die for you, and it turned out, you would have done the same. As the events of the night unfolded and I got you out of the bomb vest, I learned what real fear, and relief, feel like. We made it out of there alive and unharmed, saved by some strangely timed call, and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. You’d been willing to sacrifice yourself, ever the soldier, to save me. Not anyone, not some innocent bystander, _me_. What could one say to that? So we headed back home in silence, promising Lestrade we’d come by the next day for a full testimony. I hailed the cab and you gave the driver our address and we sat, next to each other as we always did, but suddenly, everything felt different. We weren’t just two flatmates, two friends working together. We’d almost died, we’d been one phone call from certain death, and we’d both accepted it. It was quite a shock mentally to go from acknowledging that you’re minutes away from dying, to being saved, to thinking again you’re about to die, to finally be free to leave, as if nothing had happened. I told you awkwardly on the edge of the pool back then, but what you offered to do, it was way more than I deserved. We reached Baker Street and headed upstairs. I knew it would be pointless to try and sleep, so I sat in my chair and closed my eyes, listening to you moving around the space of our private corners. When I expected you to go up to your room, you surprised me, heading straight to the kitchen. A couple cupboards opened, objects were displaced, and a minute later, a glass of whiskey appeared in my hand. I opened my eyes and looked at you, and wordlessly, we sipped our drinks, out of words, until you got up, grabbed the bottle, and gave us refills. We stayed there all night, you eventually falling asleep sideways in your seat and me, staring at the ceiling but not seeing, lost in my mind. People say relationships have a turning point, a moment that defines a before and an after. For us, that was it. We never talked about it again, but I think now that we should have. I wish I’d had the courage to speak up, to tell you how I felt then, to acknowledge vocally what we’d been through and make sure you were okay, with it, with us. But I’ve never been good with sentiment, you know that. And so life went on, but awkwardly, uncomfortably. It took us weeks to start opening up again, to work on and rebuild our complicity. Dear Mrs Hudson, bringing us tea and biscuits as an excuse to come up and try to force us to talk. Even Lestrade wouldn’t leave us alone, doing his best to prompt us into mundane conversations, hoping it would bring back the bond between us. But as we would find out later, only time can heal such open wounds and broken ties. 

The case of The Woman definitely didn’t help fix us. A series of misunderstanding, unassumed jealousy, senseless arguing and Mycroft, all ingredients to prevent us from figuring out our issues. 

Baskerville, where I genuinely thought I was losing my mind and lost control of everything, when I kept snapping at you for reasons that didn’t even involve you and treated you worse than anybody should ever have to tolerate. Why you stayed then, I never understood, but then again, I never understood why you ever enjoyed my company to begin with. 

And finally, Moriarty’s return. John, I will never have the words to accurately ask for your forgiveness. I did so many things that I regret, so many decisions I wish I could change now, but nothing will ever compare to the guilt I feel thinking about what I put you through. The worst thing that I ever did was what I did to you then. He promised he would “burn the heart out of [me]” and did he. I watched as he dragged my reputation through the mud, destroyed all my credibility and made me look like a criminal from behind my walls, hiding in myself, and I managed it, I could survive the pain, but you… I let it all happen, knowing I had a plan, focused on the next step, and I kept you in the dark. I saw your convictions waver, I saw your confidence tremble, collateral damage, victim by accessory. So many times, I went to say something, anything, giving you a sign that it was all just a game, and that I was playing along for the sake of the plan. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t, and I’ll never forgive myself, so how could you? 

I forced you to believe Moriarty was winning. I let you be scared, I hid the truth, because I needed you to be convincing. We became fugitives, and we hid, until the final step, when I sent you away to Baker Street and headed to the roof. But then, things went wrong. He just kept talking, and you came back way too quickly, and I had to improvise. I am so sorry John, I never intended to have you there. I never intended to make you watch. I swear I’m not that cruel. We had everything in place in case there’d be witnesses, I had people from the network there to hold back passerbys. I never could have predicted that’d be you. I tried telling you, it’s all a magic trick, it’s all fake. But I couldn’t, I had to make sure you believed it. And so I threw the phone away, and knowing what it’d do to you, I jumped. 

I’ve been tortured, I’ve been whipped, I’ve been electrocuted, I’ve been held underwater until I passed out, I’ve been stabbed, and cut, and punched, far more than I ever thought was possible for a human to survive. But I would take it all again if it meant I didn’t have to hear your voice calling out my name as you made your way to my dead body that day. Those words, “let me through, he’s my friend”, your hand on my wrist… That’s what haunted my dreams every night while I was on the run, infiltrating Moriarty’s web, undercover in the most dangerous groups. I was almost thankful for the physical pains, taking my focus away from the words tormenting my brain. I accepted everything that came at me because I felt, in a way, I deserved it. I deserved to suffer for what I’d done to you. I thought of you, sitting alone in Baker Street, forced to live with the images of your friend committing suicide in front of you, and I closed my eyes, accepting death should it come. But then, a more powerful thought started to grow in my mind: if I died here, in a cell held by a pakistani or iraqi or serbian organization, it would all be in vain. I had to make these choices, to cause you so much pain, so I could get rid of Moriarty for good, dismantling his entire network of criminals to insure it wouldn’t come back. And that became my motivation, my source from which to drain my strength. I had to keep living until I completed the plan, or else you would have suffered aimlessly. And so I did. I took hit after hit, played each character to completion, and 23 months later, I finally boarded a flight to head back home. Mycroft had me admitted to a hospital under a false identity, not that anyone could have recognized me with the state I was in anyways. My wounds were treated, my body washed and rehabilitated, making sure I was ready to go back to a civilian life. At first, all I did was sleep, but as I lay in bed alone most of the day, I wondered if this was what you’d gone through, when you returned from Afghanistan. Were you also terrified by the unknown, asking yourself what your life could be like after spending so long constantly on the edge of death? 

It took weeks for my body to build enough strength for me to consider leaving. During one of Mycroft’s impromptu visits, I let him know I was ready to go to Baker Street and meet you again. I don’t recall ever seeing as much open emotion on my brother’s face as when he informed me that you didn’t live there anymore, that in fact, you hadn’t been in almost two years. It hit me, like I’d been running full speed into a wall. I realized that a small part of me had hoped, although unconsciously, that you’d spent the whole time waiting for me to return. But that was ridiculous, illogical. You thought me dead, why would you pause your life awaiting my return? Who would wait on a dead person to return? That wouldn’t be healthy, I couldn’t wish that for you. I tried to convince myself that I was happy you’d moved on. That it was the natural process for a person in grief, to start a new life somewhere else, perhaps with someone else. A new life without me, without us. 

After days of considering the possible outcomes of my resurgence into your life, I took the decision not to be selfish: I wouldn’t try and contact you. It was best for you to never see me again. I couldn’t force you to go through the emotional trauma of learning that your grief was false, that your pain was for naught. It wouldn’t be fair of me to inform you that I’d been pretending to be dead and kept you in the dark. I’d chosen to betray the trust you’d given me, and I had no right to impose such a revelation upon your mind for the sole purpose of getting to see you again.  
I started working on cases anonymously, mainly for Mycroft’s sake, which is always awful and boring. I went back to living at Baker Street, building up a life in secret. Mrs Hudson was unbelievably happy to see me, her enthusiasm far too much for what I can tolerate. She rapidly cleaned the flat, helping me make it livable again after so long. You should have seen the dust, so elegant! I wish I could have kept the place covered in it. Alas, it was impractical, and I needed clean surfaces for my experiments. But I did keep part of the bookshelf untouched, for analysis. Knowing how dust collects after two years of being abandoned could prove useful. 

I got into a sort of routine, always leaving the building costumed, working on the cases I could gather from the newspapers and Mycroft’s sources, sending anonymous tips to the Yard, sharing some meals with Mrs Hudson who insisted on not leaving me alone for longer than a few days. It wasn’t the normal from before, but it was something. I had a reason to wake up in the morning, something to keep me occupied. I was surviving, but you know me. I kept that up for a few weeks, but quickly, it wasn't enough anymore. My network, who had helped me stage my fake suicide, learned of my return and gradually got in touch, making sure I didn’t need help. Making sure I didn’t need anything. But I did. And when it was offered to me, to “celebrate the return of the great Sherlock Holmes”, I couldn’t resist. I accepted the gift and went back home. I took out my equipment, still in its velvet covered box in the back of the wardrobe. I placed it all on the table and looked at it. I wanted to use, I wanted to feel it’s relief seeping through my body, I wanted to give my mind the much needed rest. I picked up the blue elastic band, starting to set up the tourniquet on my arm, when my eyes caught on something in the background. My vision focused on your chair, with the Union Jack cushion visible against the armrest, and I stopped. All of a sudden, my brain was flooded with thoughts of you, of how disappointed you would be if you saw what I was doing, of the countless times you’d looked at me and wondered if I was high, of your expression when Lestrade implied I had been an addict that first night in the flat. I looked at the glass vial, I looked at the needle, and back to your chair. Even without being in my life, even if we hadn’t talked in over two years, I still couldn’t do it. I couldn’t choose to purposely let down this image you had of me. I couldn’t fall back into that life, into sleeping in abandoned buildings not knowing whether I’m awake or in lucid dreams. I got up, pulled on my scarf and coat, and stepped out. 

I walked, and walked, anywhere, away, lost in my thoughts and at the same time, not thinking about anything. At some point, I realized I was by Bart’s. I stood on the street, where you had, and looked up. This was the angle from which you saw me jump, the last time you saw me alive. This is where we said goodbye. I stayed there, closing my eyes and letting my sentiment take over, tears rolling down my cheeks. I had ruined the only relationship that had ever meant anything to me. Right here, on this spot, the only man I’d ever cared about had witnessed my death, and I’d had to leave him to his pain to go save his life. I went home, recognizing for the first time in my life what it felt to be truly heartbroken. When I entered Baker Street, everything I’d left in a mess on the table was gone, and for once, I silently thanked Mycroft for his intervention. I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling until the sun came, and pushed down the sentiment as best I could, bringing up the walls around it. Life was insufferable, an endless series of uninteresting, crushingly boring days. It took me all my self-control to keep working without murdering Mycroft, even after his best efforts to give me challenging cases. I was on the edge of giving up, unable to keep going, waiting for nothing, when it happened. 

I was composing, working on a piece Mrs Hudson lovingly described as “brutalizing that poor instrument” by the windows facing Baker Street, when I saw you. There you were, in person, alive, walking about in this world, on our street, by our home, without me. You had your left hand in your pocket, your right heavily leaning on a walking stick that clearly embarrassed you. I couldn’t believe it, and I blinked, but you were still there, making your way up the pavement. You stopped, right in front of 221, and looked up. I hid against the wall, my heart beating in my chest so loud I couldn’t hear anything else. I hoped you hadn’t seen me, keeping you in my vision in the corner of my eyes. You seemed to hesitate, staring through our window. What could you be thinking? Were you feeling nostalgic, regretful? Were you considering coming in? Were you reminiscing nice memories, or suffering thinking about what you’d lost? All I wanted to do was run across the street and ask you, ask you all those things and more, but I didn’t. And neither did you. You shook your head, and kept walking, stepping away from our past, away from us, and I watched you go until you weren’t visible anymore, and even then, I didn’t move. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think. You’d been there, right there, and I was unable to contain this overload of sentiment. My heart broke, my world shattered. All my resolutions vanished. It may be selfish, it may be entirely insensitive and rude and all those others things I’ve been called before: I had to let you know. 

And so I took a pen and the first papers I found and I wrote you this letter. I apologize for how messy it is, and for the stain on the second page, I accidentally knocked over my cup of tea. I thought it would be easier to tell you this, all of this, all of me, all of us, on paper. 

Because you were a brave soldier, but I wasn’t. I never had the courage to face emotions, you know that. 

I would understand if you never want to see me again, or if you didn’t even open this letter. If you burned it and pretended you never received it. I won’t try to contact you again, I will let you live your life. I will respect your decision. 

But on the off chance that maybe, you would still consider me a friend. 

On the off chance that maybe you would want to see me again. 

If, perhaps, you can give me a second chance. If you still think I am worthy of you. 

I’ll be in here, in our place, in our home.

You know how to find me, 

SH

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Sherlock was sitting in his chair by the fireplace, entering the data from his most recent experiment into the spreadsheet on his laptop, when the doorbell rang. He ignored it, focusing on his analysis of the decomposition of autumn leaves in dirt, until it rang again. He frowned, usually by now, Mrs Hudson would have answered the door. He thought he remembered a vague mention of visiting her sister and grumbled, setting down his things. He hoped the intruder would go away, but the bell rang again, this time followed by a few rasp knocks on the door. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock got up and made his way downstairs, annoyed. He opened the door with force, ready to pull his “heartless jerk” persona to make sure the person would leave as quickly as possible, but…

“John.”

He was visibly breathless, his hair sticking to his forehead with the sweat, his cane was nowhere to be found: he’d clearly been running. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his cheeks, tear stained, and he looked wild, in pure shock. He was staring at Sherlock in disbelief, blinking a few times. They stood, frozen in place, for what felt like an eternity, before John looked down at the crumbled pieces of paper clenched in his hand, as if to make sure they were really there, then back up. 

“You…” his throat was rough, and he choked, taking a deep breath and swallowing. 

“You bloody… idiot, you ass!”

John stepped forward, his hands grabbing the front of Sherlock’s shirt and pushing him backwards against the wall by the stairs. Sherlock’s eyes blinked under the shock and he stared at John, his breathing difficult and sharp. 

“Two years... two years I spent trying to live in this world without you. Two. Years. Sherlock!”

Sherlock frowned and went to answer, but before he could say anything, John pulled on his shirt and reached up, slamming his lips against Sherlock’s. Sherlock closed his eyes, the surprise and sensations overwhelming him. A couple of seconds passed during which all he could do was think about John’s warm, soft lips pushing hard against his. Realizing Sherlock’s lack of a response, John started pulling back. The loss hit Sherlock like a landslide, and he felt the ground crumbling until his feet. Instinctively, he grabbed John’s face with both hands and kissed him back. Lips were bruised and bit, tongues met, breaths were stolen. John’s left hand moved to grab Sherlock’s side, holding him tightly against his own body, and the other sneaked up around his neck, his fingers sliding in Sherlock’s hair. They held onto each other for as long as they could, like their life depended on it, until they simply couldn’t hold their breath anymore. Reluctantly, John released Sherlock’s lips, but kept them brushing, their foreheads and noses touching. They panted heavily, occupying the same space, breathing the same air. The moment slowly dawned on them, and Sherlock opened his eyes, staring straight into John’s. They communicated wordlessly, searching each other’s gaze, the tension between them being relieved. John smiled, and a small chuckle escaped. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, amused, and that caused John to double down on his laughter, his shoulders shaking and his head falling backwards. Sherlock joined in and they laughed together, against the wall at the bottom of the stairs of their Baker Street flat, just like they’d done all those years ago after chasing the cab around London. Today felt just as exhilarating, an incredible high. Little by little, the excitement was replaced with a quiet peace, a comfort that neither man had felt since they’d lost one another. 

“This does not mean that you are forgiven.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know.”

“So you’re… back? For real?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry, John, so so sor-”  
John put his hand on Sherlock’s chest. “Stop. Sherlock, stop, not now. Just… I can’t handle this discussion right now.” He worried his already damaged lower lip, hesitating. “Can we go upstairs? Maybe get some takeaway? I haven’t had Chinese in…”

“Yes, of course John, Chinese sounds great.” 

They shared a silent look, full of questions and fondness and hope, and as they stood away from the wall, John closed the door to Baker Street, leaving behind the past years of suffering and reconstructing the walls of their shared world, this time together.


End file.
